Stories from Month 7

Nha Trang, Vietnam

Green Waves of Rice

On the bus to Nha Trang, the rice fields stretched on for hours. We passed by flat square after flat square, each separated from the other by a short earthen dike. The rice was in various stages of growth. The flooded fields were being prepped for planting while the tall green ones were nearly ready to harvest. Like they have been doing for hundreds of years, farmers in conical hats hunched over and worked the land by hand.

A constant wind blew against our bus and against the rows of thigh-high rice. As if stroked by an invisible giant hand, the fields undulated perfectly from one side to the other. The deep waves arched like a cat being stroked.

The line from America the Beautiful suddenly popped into my head:

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain.

For the first time I understood the beauty of the image, of real waves crossing fields of wheat in the heartland of America. (I'm not a farm boy, so I'd never seen anything quite like that before.) My head rocked gently off the bus window as the sublime irony soaked in.

After 31 years, I'd found the truth of a nationalistic American anthem by traveling through Vietnam - through the rice fields of Communist country and former enemy.
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Cyclo

Hoi An, Vietnam

Thanksgivng in Vietnam

For Thanksgiving we spent 14 hours on a bus. It's rainy season in central Vietnam and it has rained almost constantly since we have been here. As thick gray skies hung overhead, water cascaded down the bus windows and large puddles formed in the road's potholes. In some places on the road where flooding had recently occurred, mud banked the road several feet high. The only reason traffic could pass was a bulldozer had previously plowed the mud to make a path. It was a long, bumpy, and claustrophobic ride and I was glad to finally reach Hoi An.

After a long search for a hotel with available rooms, we went to look for food. It was Thanksgiving after all, even if there was only one hour left to the day. We found a great Chinese restaurant open on an otherwise dark and closed down street. It was a beacon of light and color and we went straight to it with pangs of hunger. While friends and family at home were feasting on turkey and stuffing, we were feasting on a much less traditional meal. Dish after dish of great food was set on our table û crispy spring rolls, won ton soup, fried vegetables, Chinese dumplings, and custard flan for dessert.

Colors

Hoi An is a historic town located halfway down the coast between Saigon and Hanoi. It is a place where a simple walk down the street saturates your senses with textures, color, people, and sound - a photographer's dream. We were charmed by it all and spent each day strolling down the picturesque streets soaking up our vibrant surroundings.

The color of buildings in the narrow streets kept my eyes darting left and right. Their bright yellow and aqua paint has faded into earthy hues after years in the bright sun. Red tiled roofs and painted walls have grown green patterns of moss, lichen, and mold - a product of heavy monsoon rains and occasional floods. Big round Chinese lanterns for sale in every color sent nighttime rainbows into the dark streets. Historic homes, built centuries ago in Hoi An's heyday as a port town, have been in families for generations. The dark wood finish of their interiors was as rich as their past. Even beige, the color of the conical farmer's hat, was exciting when perched on top of hundreds of women in the market.

The people of Hoi An were as colorful as the buildings that surrounded them. I was equally captivated by watching the six schoolgirls in uniform giggle as they struggled uphill riding adult-sized Chinese bicycles. One looked up at me and flashed a wide smile as I passed. Or the waiter in a roadside shack who sold drinks, wearing a crisp white shirt and dress clothes as if he was the head of a five star restaurant. He sat down a talked with us excitedly until our bus left. And Nam, a smallish 15 year old boy who worked in a restaurant. He had the seriousness and resolution of someone twice his age, but still asked me for an American coin for his coin collection and grinned when chided him for looking so serious.

I made a couple of quick friends, such as the four women who gestured for me to sit next to them when I found myself cycling through an unexpected downpour. For ten minutes of rain, we spoke about life in our respective towns. I also met Hahn, the owner of a great tailoring shop that Michelle and I had clothes made in. When we departed from Hoi An, she saw us off with two bottles of water and apples for our bus trip. I met countless other people as well, if not with words then a quick smile and a friendly gesture.

Years from now I will look back on my trip to Vietnam and my mind will drift here. And although my memory might be as faded as the paint on an old building in Hoi An, it will be as warm as the bright colors.
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Shopping Spree

From the beginning of this trip to arriving in Hoi An I have shown much self-control in shopping. All along the way souvenirs have called my name, begging to be bought and taken home: bracelets from Bali, pottery from Penang, sarongs from Samoa and T-shirts from Thailand. With much determination I have looked away, ignoring their magnetic pull and my money staying safely in my pocket. But upon arriving in Hoi An, all hope of discipline was lost.

Hoi An is famous for its fine tailors and the cheap prices for custom-made clothes. The streets are lined with hundreds of different tailor shops, each with a storekeeper calling out to you as you walk by, "Come in!" In the front of each store is a showroom of various outfits displaying examples of what you can buy - shimmering evening gowns, cashmere coats, and flashy silk tops. The walls of the shops are lined with bolts of fabric piled high to the ceiling in every color and fabric imaginable.

The process to get clothes made is as fun and exciting as buying the clothes. After walking into the store of your choice, you are ushered to a small table in the center of the room. As you browse through the latest fashion catalogs, the shop owners are busy bringing you water, tea, or fruit...basically pampering you. Once you pick the style you like, either from the clothes on display or in a fashion magazine, the tailor sets to work gathering your measurements. As the tape measure circles different parts of your body, the tailor calls out to an assistant your measurements, who obediently writes them down in a notebook. Then you pick the fabric and colors you like. If you order your clothes in the morning, you return in the afternoon for adjustments and by the next morning your clothes are ready!

While it is fun to get clothes custom-made, what breaks down every budget traveler's defenses and causes cash to steadily drain from the wallet are the prices: tailor-made cashmere suits for $25, evening gowns for $11, silk blouses for $7, full length wool coats for $23, and cotton Oxford shirts for $5. Prices low enough to make your knees buckle and mouth drool with desire. Things you never knew you needed you suddenly want.

By the end of our buying extravaganza, when the sewing machines stopped whirling and the scissors ceased snipping, Tim and I had a beautiful array of new clothes. A suit, coat, silk shirts and blouses, shipped home, will welcome us back to the US in style.

** Note: For those of you who are going to Hoi An and are looking for a tailor, we highly recommend:

79 Tony at 79 Huynh Thuc Khang St.
With Hahn, the owner, we recieved top-notch service and clothes!
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Hanoi, Vietnam

Train Diary

3:00 p.m.
Arrived promptly for night train to Hanoi. Train is delayed until 6 p.m. due to flooding and poor track conditions.

6:15 .,m.
Three forty-five train arrives. A group of European package tourists boards the expensive sleeper car up-track. We enter the "hard sleeper" car with a few Vietnamese travelers.

Six questioning people stare back at us from the inside of our compartment as if we have crashed their private party. They have traveled halfway between Saigon and Hanoi. With people passed out on either side of us on unpadded plywood cubicles three tiers high, the compartment now resembles an opium den. I'm instantly filled with trepidation and I recheck my ticket to make sure I'm entering the correct berth.

We cause a commotion stowing our bags and clamber up to the third tier bunks. Eventually we settle in to a prone position and give each other looks across the compartment, asking each other with shrugs and giggles if being on this train is really better than taking the bus.

7:15 p.m.
We approach a stop in the Quang Tri province and the loudspeaker mounted on the ceiling by my head crackles to life with music and a five-minute speech in Vietnamese and English. In a strange mix of helpful tourism information and propaganda, we learn the details of evil American aggression, heroic Vietnamese bravery, and beautiful countryside near the old DMZ.
9:15 p.m.
I stare at the white metal ceiling 18 inches from my face. As I contemplate thirteen more hours of staring at the same spot, the man in the berth below exhales a plume of cigarette smoke that mushrooms off the ceiling and creeps around me. I grimace and look down from my berth high above in the cloudy heavens. I see a pile of shoes heaped in the center of the floor surrounded by bits of trash.

Our compartment has six berths, but nine people share the tiny space. Apparently, stragglers without seats are allowed to make themselves at home here, because several men are using the bottom two berths as seats. One man carefully scoops spoonfuls of soft-boiled duck egg from a shell and washes it down with gulps of beer. Two other men stare absentmindedly out the window and smoke. Another reads a well-worn magazine. I haven't seen the woman in the middle berth open her eyes in three hours.

So many children throw rocks at passing trains that protective cages have been installed on all the windows. I wonder if any rocks will crash against our car, and in the spirit of synchronicity, a heavy rock crashes down on the roof in a spot close to my head.

11:50 p.m.
We have stopped for a passing train. Someone has turned off the ceiling fan and the air has become suffocating. I bury my face in my shirt to filter the smoke and drape a bandanna over my eyes to darken the bright light.

3:00 a.m.
I can't help but to wish harm on the person below. I hope that a rock will make it past the protective covering on the window and knock him unconscious, or that he will choke on the food his slovenly lips smack loudly. I know I shouldn't think this way, but can't help myself. Everyone in the compartment had finally fallen asleep when he rudely turned on the bright lights to eat and smoke. Argh!

6:00 a.m.
Sunrise. I don't feel too bad considering.

I climb down from the bunk, crouch in the hallway, and watch the fields and villages come alive. I share brief conversations in broken English with the people in my compartment and wonder which one I almost killed last night.

Street Buzz

I'm not quite thrilled with Hanoi. The people seem distant and the noise level is crazy. Nevertheless, I know I'm going to miss it when I'm gone.

It is the buzz of the Old Quarter that keeps my head spinning with interest. It was built in the 13th century for foot traffic. The narrow streets now support a huge network of motorcycles, bicycles, cyclos, pedestrians, trucks, and vendors. There are very few streetlights or stop signs here, so people just fly into the intersections, mix around, and spit out where they want to be. It has no rules, yet works perfectly.

The streets were named for what they sold, so that Hang Hahn sold onions, Hang Huong sold incense, Hang Ca sold fish, and Thuoc Bac sold herbal medicine. Only a few of the names are appropriate nowadays, such as Lo Ren, the blacksmith's street, where welding equipment and hammers spill out into the street with wrought iron furniture and clanging.

I never grow tired of seeing what the women vendors have to offer as they amble down the congested streets carrying their traveling stores. Each woman shoulders a heavy wooden bar with a basket hanging from each side. The baskets could be carrying bananas, caged chickens and ducks, raw meat, a neatly arranged array of vegetables, seasonal fruits, or fried dough. It could even be huge bouquets of cut flowers or piles of bricks. With each of their steps, the bars bend under the weight. I'm amazed that their small frames can support so much.

Halong Bay, Vietnam

Green Water

I woke to the sound of gentle waves breaking against the side of our boat and walked topside to watch the sunrise. The morning was beautiful. Calm water, peaceful silence, and tall cliffs surrounded our boat and for the first time in a few days, the sun made an appearance and warmed my smiling face.

We were on the second day of a boating tour through the limestone cliffs and islands of Halong Bay, an area about four hours east of Hanoi. With over 3000 islands, the area has become a popular attraction in Vietnam and has been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

After a quick breakfast, our boat continued through the bay. The islands we passed rose high out of the blue-green water in sheer cliffs and were topped with tufts of stunted trees like green crew cuts. The abundance of shelter kept the wind at bay and the water calm, so that only the ship's engine and the occasional passing hawk broke our peace.

Halong Bay is home to many pearl farmers. Their modest homes float on blue barrels and typically have a set of docks and fish farming nets attached. Many of the homes have land-based touches like potted plants and shrubs. They all have dogs running about. With rows of nets nearby marking the pearl fields, the whole operation looks remarkably like a small farmhouse on land sitting next to rows of crops. The only thing that breaks this vision is watching the farmer row, facing forwards and standing up, through his "yard" on an oval woven basket-like boat.

We spent a few hours enjoying the ride and later climbed a mountain that offered an elevated view of the islands.

Hanoi, Vietnam

Sipping Coffee

Tim and I are splurging and are sitting in an upscale cafe in Hanoi. While jazz music plays in the background and sunlight streams through the large open windows, we sit, write and sip coffee. All around us are Western businessmen or wealthy tourists chattering away in sharp looking suits, silk blouses, expensive watches and fancy jewelry. On the menu are gourmet items such as homemade apple chutney and butter orange sauce. We sit with our backpacks discretely hidden under our table. In our T-shirts we feel a bit shabby.

I just used the bathroom and came back excitedly whispering to Tim, "This is a really fancy place!" and then described the bathroom to him. It had a Western toilet (not a dirty squat toilet smelling of urine that I am used to), the toilet paper was in bountiful supply, no trash littered the floor, perfumed soap and towels were available for my use. Such luxury!

It amuses me that this environment, so familiar at home, seems outrageously fancy after living the life of a backpacker for the last six months. (By the way, today we have been on the road for exactly six months!) Sure the coffee is three times what we are used to paying and the only Vietnamese here are the waiters. It's not a great place to soak in the Vietnamese culture. But every once in a while it is nice to pamper ourselves to an expensive cup of coffee and remember the business world we left behind.
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Sapa, Vietnam

Journey to Sapa

5:30 a.m., Hanoi:
It is still dark outside. The street is quiet and peaceful, no hints of the frantic energy that will consume it shortly.

Tim and I sit on the steps outside of our hotel. Like the city, we are just waking up. Across the street an old man emerges. He vigorously swings his arms, squats a few times and then begins a brisk walk. A lone cyclo driver passes, hoping for an early morning customer. A figure burns trash on the corner and the fire's orange light jumps and dances. A woman with a large basket on her head stops to sell us bread still warm from the oven.

We hear the sound of an engine. Bright headlights swing around the corner and blind us for a second. Our mini-van has arrived. We board and start our journey to Sapa.

5:30 p.m., Sapa:
Twelve hours later we spill out of the bus, our legs cramped and necks stiff from the long, bumpy journey. Although uncomfortable, the ride treated us to rich views of the Vietnamese countryside and scenic vistas: rice terraced hills, windy rivers, and water buffalo tilling the fields.

Sapa is a hill station in north-west Vietnam built by the French almost 80 years ago. It sits on the border of China, high in the mountains surrounded by mountain peaks and swirling mist. The cool temperature and thin air remind me of how high up we are. The land is rich with green and yellow farmland and rice terraces. The streets are dusty, but rich with blue, red and black of the minority hill tribe people who live around Sapa.

We have come here to see these people who have changed little from their ancestors. We plan to trek to the surrounding villages, wander the lively town market, and admire the hill tribe handicrafts.
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Sapa Adventure

Sapa is a strange and unique place û so different from my Western world. It is dusty remote roads and colorful people make it the most exotic place I've ever visited.

This morning our small tour group clambered back onto our minibus to head out of town and to trek among the near-by hill tribe villages.

As our bus reached the edge of town, out the window something white caught the corner of my eye. Looking closer, with a mixture of shock and surprise, I realized it was the carcass of a large dog. Most of its fur was gone and its white body stood out glaringly against the dusty grey sidewalk. Squatting next to it was an old woman carefully pulling out the little remaining fur. I knew the Vietnamese ate dog but this was the first time I had seen anyone preparing one for consumption. While traveling I struggle to keep an open mind to cultural differences. If the old woman had been plucking feathers from a chicken I probably wouldn't have given it a second thought. Meat is meat, right? Still, the sight left me feeling queasy and a little uneasy.

The bus continued to rumble along windy roads and the views were breathtaking. We were greeted by rice terraces carved into the steep hills, basic wooden houses with small children peering out of doorways and hill tribe women carrying large baskets on their backs as they walked along the road. Deep in the valley below a river ran, stumbling and tripping over rocks.

I was still recovering from seeing the dog carcass when I spotted a group of women on the side of the road gathered around a man and his motorcycle. A large pink pig hung over the back of the motorcycle. It was so big the head and tail almost touched the ground. On closer inspection I realized the middle of the pig was missing - almost in the perfect shape of a square. Confused, I looked at our guide for an explanation. He said the man was a local butcher. He traveled to the houses with the dead pig and the women ordered pieces, which he cut right there. Door to door service! Later, in a cloud of dust, he passed our bus on his motorcycle with the pig still draped on the back, innards hanging out.

A few kilometers out of town our minibus stopped by an old abandoned church the French had built long ago. Now all that remained was its stone shell. We continued down the red clay road by foot. As we arrived at the first village, Dao women and girls surrounded us to sell their wares. I was enveloped in a sea of red turbans, mud-caked feet and hands shoving jewellery and embroidered purses in my face. At first I declined to buy from them, but they persisted and my defenses broke down. The older women's grins, with only a couple yellow teeth remaining, were hard to resist. Two bracelets and one purse later I walked on.

The village consisted of a couple stores, a small health clinic, a post office and a school. With no trees, sparse vegetation and dirt roads it had the feel of a ghost town.

We continued up a small dirt path, through rice paddies, toward an even more basic village. Thirty wooden houses sat perches on a steep hill. As we approached I heard children yelling and caught glimpses of black forms scrambling down the hill. When we arrived at a small wooden gate, marking the entrance to the village, we were greeted by a dozen children dressed in indigo blue (the H'mong tribe). They stared at us, their eyes reflecting caution as much as curiosity. I am sure we were a strange sight - tall giants dressed in hiking boots and fleece jackets, interrupting their daily lives.

As we climbed up the hill, more and more children emerged. Most were very young and shy, all were covered with dust and dirt. Any awkwardness soon melted though as the older boys demonstrated their skills at shooting wooden arrows from a crossbow. They use the crossbow to kill birds, rats and an occasional rabbit, for food.

We were then ushered into a small house consisting of two smoky dark rooms with dirt floors. It was lunch time so several woman were dishing out vegetable and rice to about ten children. While the men work in the forest and fields, the women stay home and care for the children. Over thirty people live in this particular house. At night, they sleep on the floor wherever there is space.

One of the more interesting sights I saw was when we first approached the village. In a small stream a wooden contraption was built. It was a hydroelectric generator - on a Gilligan's Island scale. Thin wires hung from the generator to each house allowing enough electricity for each house to have one light bulb.

Hill Tribes

The colorful Sapa weekend market in northern Vietnam should be a wonderland of photographic "good shots". On a flight of stairs above the commotion, I had a great view of the many hill tribe people below me. The Black H'mong women, known by their indigo-dyed hand woven clothes and pillbox hats, were there in the greatest numbers. The Red Dzou women were the most colorful, dressed up with bright red hats of folded cloth that sat back on their shaved heads. All around me, stripes of colorful beadwork, bright woven textiles, gold teeth, and dangling silver earrings filled the market with color.

My first instinct was to take photos, and I soon found out how little the minority people appreciated it. They all turned, hid, or asked for money. Out of respect for their wishes, I put my camera in my backpack and took photos with my memory.

Many other tourists didn't care if they upset the locals and went chasing after them with cameras or took their photos after being asked not to. They just shot away, like taking photos of animals in the zoo or freaks in a freak show.

One Frenchman walked around the market with his photography vest full, the brim of his round hat up pushed up the same style as Ralph Kramden, and his large black camera. He first tried to surprise the hill tribe people by snapping quickly composed shots. They must have been to fast for his Nikon, because he quickly changed tactics and started walking past the women with his camera hiked on his shoulder trying to snap photos without looking through his viewfinder. He thought he was being discreet, but the click of his camera could be heard 15 feet away and his eyes bulged with comic trickery when he strained to look sideways. His behavior could not have been more obvious.

But the hill tribe people return to the market and put up with this every weekend. Why? To sell tourists hill tribe crafts. I think every woman there tried to sell me a bracelet, handbag, hat, pillow, weaving, article of clothing, or some other miscellaneous trinket. If I showed the slightest interest, eight other women would flock around me trying to sell similar items.

It is an even trade. Too many tourists spoil what used to be a genuine cultural experience. They then turn their visit into an opportunity to take photos to wow their friends at home, while the hill tribe people sell out their values to improve their poor living conditions. While both groups walked away with what they wanted, I left with a sense of emptiness.

But I guess I can't complain. As a tourist there, I'm part of the problem.
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Bac Ha, Vietnam

Colors of Bac Ha

Bac Ha is famous for its Sunday market, a weekly hill tribe event that draws locals in from all over the surrounding area. Unlike Sapa, it is not staged for tourists and far fewer tourists make it up this way. (For the time being.)

The market was in full swing by the time we arrived, so we ended our bus trip from Sapa by passing through a narrow street full of hill tribe people. As we made our way through the crowd inch by inch, the bus driver honked and the crowd parted uncomfortably. Judging by the looks of the surrounding people, I imagined our tourist bus looked, from the outside, like a fishbowl full of interlopers.

After making it through the crowd, Michelle and I headed back to the market on foot.

We were struck by the vibrant color of the women's clothes in the market. Royal blue tops radiated from neck to shoulders with thin colorful embroidered lines. Skirts mirrored these lines, adding other fields of solid colors, miscellaneous patchwork, and intricate flower patterns. To top the women off, plaid hats clashed in pinks, greens, and yellows. With the hundreds of women around me and the vendors selling these colorful clothes on racks, my eyes played strange tricks whenever I scanned the crowd.

The market was very crowded, but not so large that we couldn't pass by everything once in 30 minutes. We walked with short steps and patience, often waiting in pedestrian bottlenecks and being pushed by little old ladies who barreled through the crowds like wrinkled geriatric tanks.

To the right of the entrance, people selected tall staffs of sugarcane from a huge purple pile, which they would break into pieces, chew on, and spit to the ground. Over these chewed up chunks, we passed by clothes and vegetable vendors, past huge piles of tobacco and bamboo water pipes, to the meat section, where butchers cut from meat sitting out in the open air and heat. The meat was unusual. Besides the usual items like pigs, cows, chickens, and ducks, the Bac Ha market sold dogs.

As dogs were available as cuts of meat, they were also available live, right next to the live pigs, chickens, and other livestock. It took me a while to get used to, but to many of the north Vietnamese people, dog is a delicacy. Meat is meat, I thought, but I still became queasy when I spotted a motorcycle taking off down a bumpy road carting a cage full of puppies.
We rounding the corner and pungent fumes of alcohol accosted our senses of smell, from corn whiskey, a Bac Ha specialty. The potent moonshine is decanted by vendors from large white plastic jugs to used bottled water containers. If you doubt the ability of a vendor's hooch to peel paint or light your senses on fire, you can try a shot for free. I tried one later in the day in a hill tribe house û wow! Being bathtub brewed, the stuff is inexpensive. A 20 liter container costs about $12.

Completing our circle in the market, we passed by more colorful clothes, housewares, food stalls, and horse carts. There was so much to see, so many new experiences. After two hours of walking, my eyes and my head needed a rest.

Chiang Mai, Thailand

Staying Put

Yesterday we flew from Hanoi to Bangkok, then we took an overnight train north to Chiang Mai. Chiang Mai is a beautiful old city full of character and charm. The Old City lies in the center, marked by a square moat and red brick walls. The city is full of Buddhist temples - there seems to be one on each corner. Bright red and gold roofs glitter in the sun as we walk around getting our bearings. The city is also has a cosmopolitan feel with large shopping malls, ATMs, and movie theaters.

We plan to rent a room here in Chiang Mai for a month and take a break from constantly moving from one city to another. The month has an educational theme in that we plan to take a Thai massage course, take Thai cooking classes, and even hear a lecture or two on Buddhism. On the weekends we will visit the surrounding hills, trekking to see the hill tribe people who reside in the surrounding areas. This is where we will spend our Christmas and New Year's - our home away from home.

A Dining Experience

Tonight, Tim and I set out to find a restaurant highlighted in our guidebook for its delicious fishball soup (ground fish shaped into small balls). We mistakenly walked pass the restaurant so ended up eating at an outdoor restaurant by a popular night market. We delighted ourselves eating sea bass and asparagus, rice, and a vegetable green curry dish.

At one point, I jumped high in my seat when I turned around and found a huge colorful paper-mache lion's head inches from my face. Under the mask were the eyes of a small boy peeking out. The mask was almost equal to the size of his body. His partner, a slightly older boy, demanded sharply, "You give money! You give money!" I know it is a Chinese custom near the New Year for the Chinese lion dancers to dance in front of business and storefronts. Giving offerings to the lion ensures good luck for the upcoming year. These clever lads were approaching diners, demanding money in return for blessing. We shooed them away, taking our chances on acquiring good luck.

My favorite seller though was the man selling elephant food. As Tim and I finished our meal, I looked up to see an elephant slowly lumbering toward us on the road. A man sat on top of him, looking equally as bored as the elephant. Another man approached each table selling fruit that the buyer would then feed to the elephant. I was so startled to see an elephant in the middle of a city street I couldn't help but stare. We didn't buy any fruit but watched as others offered it to the large creature. He hungrily accepted it with his large trunk.

This went on for a while until a policeman told the elephant driver that the elephant had to move. It wasn't until the elephant turned around that I saw the flashing red light attached to his tail. The light swung back and forth with each swish of the tail - a noble attempt to warn passing vehicles of this large gray mass in the road. It was a fitting reminder we were in Thailand, land of elephants.
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Thai Massage Class

One of our dreams of our trip was to take a Thai massage course in Thailand. We want to return home able to wow people with our magical hands û relaxing and stretching muscles until they melt.

First on our Chiang Mai agenda was signing up for a massage class. So today we begin a two-week course at the Institute of Thai Massage (ITM). The first week we will learn the basics and the second week we will learn more advanced techniques.

Thai massage originated in India 2,500 years ago, around the time of Buddha. Unlike Swedish massage, which mostly kneads the muscles, Thai massage works the body's energy lines and involves much stretching. To someone who sees Thai massage for the first time it might look very strange. The masseuse uses fingers, hands, elbows, arms and feet to massage and can twist the client into some pretty impressive positions!
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